George.
I wish I could take it as calmly as she does. An outsider would think there was nothing the matter at all. Oh, it’s too awful!
Lady Kelsey.
My dear, you must bear up. We must all hope for the best.
George.
But there is no best. Whatever happens, it means disgrace and dishonour. How could he? How could he?
Lady Kelsey.
No one knows your father as I do, George. I’m sure he’s never been anything but thoughtless and foolish.
George.
Of course he’s not been actually criminal. That’s absurd. But it’s bad enough as it is.
Mrs. Crowley.
You mustn’t take it too much to heart. In another half-hour at the utmost your father will be here with everything cleared up, and you’ll be able to go back to Oxford with a clear conscience.
George.
D’you think I can go to Oxford again when my father has been tried for forgery? No, no! No, no! I’d rather shoot myself.
Lady Kelsey.
My poor boy.... Where have you been all day?
George.
Heaven knows! I’ve walked through the streets till I’m dog-tired. Oh, the suspense is too awful. My feet carried me to the Old Bailey, and I would have given anything to go in and see how things were going, but I’d promised the Pater I wouldn’t.
Lady Kelsey.
How did he look this morning?
George.
He was most awfully worn and ill. I don’t believe he’ll ever get over it. I saw his counsel before the case began. They told me it was bound to come all right.
Mrs. Crowley.
Is there anything in the evening papers?
George.
I haven’t dared to look. The placards are awful.
Carbery.
Why, what do they say?
George.
Can’t you imagine? “Gentleman charged with forgery.” “County gentleman at the Old Bailey.” And all the rest of it. Damn them! Damn them!
Lady Kelsey.
It may be all over by now.
George.
I feel that I shall never sleep again. I couldn’t close my eyes last night. To think that one’s own father....
Lady Kelsey.
For goodness’ sake be quiet.
George.
[Starting.] There’s a ring at the bell.
Lady Kelsey.
I’ve given orders that no one is to be admitted but Dick Lomas and Bobbie.
Mrs. Crowley.
It must be finished by now. It’s one or the other of them come to tell you the result.
Lady Kelsey.
Oh, I’m so frightfully anxious.
George.
Aunt, you don’t think....
Lady Kelsey.
No, no, of course not. They must find him not guilty.
[The Butler enters followed by Dick Lomas,
a clean-shaven dapper man, with a sharp
face and good-natured smile. He is between
thirty-five and forty, but slim and youthful.
With him comes Sir Robert Boulger,
Lady Kelsey’s nephew, a good-looking,
spruce youth of twenty-two.
Butler.
Mr. Lomas, Sir Robert Boulger.
George.
[Excitedly.] Well, well? For God’s sake tell us quickly.
Dick.
My dear people, I have nothing to tell.
George.
Oh!
[He staggers with sudden faintness and falls
to the floor.
Dick.
Hulloa! What’s this?
Mrs. Crowley.
Poor boy!
[They crowd round him.
George.
It’s all right. What a fool I am! I was so strung up.
Dick.
You’d better come to the window.
[He and Boulger take the boy’s arms and lead
him to the window. George leans against
the balcony.
Carbery.
I’m afraid I must go away. Every Wednesday at four I read Little Lord Fauntleroy to forty charwomen.
Lady Kelsey.
Good-bye. And thanks so much for coming.
Mrs. Crowley.
[Shaking hands with him.] Good-bye. A clergyman always helps one so much to bear other people’s misfortunes.
[Carbery goes out, and in a moment Robert
Boulger comes back into the room.
Lady Kelsey.
Is he better?
Boulger.
Oh, much. He’ll be all right in a minute. [Lady Kelsey goes to the window, and he turns to Mrs. Crowley.] You are a brick to come here to-day, when they’re all in such awful trouble.
Mrs. Crowley.
[With a little hesitation.] Did you really come away before the trial was ended?
Boulger.
Why, of course. What did you think? You don’t imagine they’ll convict him?
Mrs. Crowley.
It’s too dreadful.
Boulger.
Where is Lucy? I was hoping to get a glimpse of her.
Mrs. Crowley.
I wouldn’t trouble her to-day if I were you. I think she most wants to be left alone.
Boulger.
I wanted to tell her that if I could do anything at all, she had only to command.
Mrs. Crowley.
I think she knows that. But I’ll give her the message if you like.... You’re very devoted.
Boulger.
I’ve been madly in love with her ever since I was ten.
Mrs. Crowley.
Take care then. There’s nothing so tedious as the constant lover.
[Dick comes into the room and speaks to
Robert Boulger.
Dick.
George is quite well now. He wants you to smoke a cigarette with him.
Boulger.
Certainly.
[He goes on to the balcony.
Dick.
[When Boulger is gone.] At least, he will the moment he sees you.
Mrs. Crowley.
What do you mean by that?
Dick.
Merely that I wanted to talk to you. And Robert Boulger, being a youth of somewhat limited intelligence, seemed in the way.
Mrs. Crowley.
Why did you leave the Old Bailey?
Dick.
My dear lady, I couldn’t stand it. You don’t know what it is to sit there and watch a man tortured, a man you’ve known all your life, whom you’ve dined with times out of number, in whose house you’ve stayed. He had just the look of a hunted beast, and his face was grey with terror.
Mrs. Crowley.
How was the case going?
Dick.
I couldn’t judge. I could only see those haggard, despairing eyes.
Mrs. Crowley.
But you’re a barrister. You must have heard his answers. What did he reply to all the questions?
Dick.
He seemed quite dazed. I don’t think he took in the gist of his cross-examination.
Mrs. Crowley.
But the man’s innocent.
Dick.
Yes, we all hope that.
Mrs. Crowley.
What d’you mean? There can be no doubt about that. When he was arrested Lucy went to him and begged him to tell her the exact truth. He swore that he wasn’t guilty.
Dick.
Poor Lucy! She’s borne up wonderfully. She’ll stick to her father through thick and thin.
Mrs. Crowley.
[Abruptly.] Mr. Lomas, you’re trying to put me off. It’s not fair to let Lucy buoy herself up with false hopes. She’s absolutely convinced that her father will be acquitted.
Dick.
Well, in another half-hour we shall all know. When I left, the judge was just going to sum up.
Mrs. Crowley.
Mr. Lomas, what is your opinion?
[He loo
ks at her steadily for a moment.
Dick.
Were you very much surprised when you heard Fred Allerton was arrested?
Mrs. Crowley.
Good heavens, I was overwhelmed!
Dick.
[Dryly.] Ah!
Mrs. Crowley.
If you aggravate me I shall box your ears.
Dick.
When first I knew Fred he was a very rich man. You know that the Allertons are one of the oldest families in Cheshire?
Mrs. Crowley.
Yes. I think Lucy’s only failing is an inordinate pride in her family. She thinks it very snobbish to have any particular respect for a peer of the realm, but only natural to look up to persons of good family.
Dick.
Ah, you see, you and I who have a quite indecent lack of ancestors, can’t realise what the cult of family may be. There are families in the remote parts of England — not very rich, not very clever, and not very good-looking — who would look askance at a belted earl who came to demand their daughter’s hand in marriage. They have a natural conviction that they’re the salt of the earth, and in their particular corner they rule more absolutely than half the monarchs in Europe. The Allertons were like that. But Fred somehow seemed to belong to a different stock. The first thing he did was to play ducks and drakes with his fortune.
Mrs. Crowley.
But men ought to be extravagant. That’s what they’re there for.
Dick.
Women always took his side because he had an irresistible charm of manner.
Mrs. Crowley.
I think George has, too, a little.
Dick.
I hope for Lucy’s sake he will turn out a different man from his father. I wish he weren’t so like him in appearance. At last Fred Allerton had squandered every penny, and he married Lady Kelsey’s sister, one of the three rich daughters of a Liverpool merchant. But he ran through her money, too, gambling, racing, and so forth, and she died of a broken heart — adoring him still.
Mrs. Crowley.
You’re as well informed as an encyclopædia, Mr. Lomas.
Dick.
You see, I was made the trustee for the poor remains of Mrs. Allerton’s fortune, and I know how Lucy has managed to keep all their heads above water. She’s wonderful. Ever since she was a child she’s held the reins in her own hands. She’s stuck to her father, though Lady Kelsey implored her to leave him to his own foolish ways. She saw that George was decently educated. She hid from the world all the little shifts and devices to which she had to resort in order to keep up an appearance of decency.
Mrs. Crowley.
I suppose you, too, think Fred Allerton little better than a scamp?
Dick.
My dear lady, when a man has had to leave his club because he plays cards too well, it’s at least permissible to suppose that there’s something odd about him.
Mrs. Crowley.
Here’s Lady Kelsey. For heaven’s sake try and amuse her a little.
[Lady Kelsey comes back into the room.
Lady Kelsey.
Oh, Dick, I’m so full of my own troubles, I forgot to ask about yours. I’m so sorry to hear that you’re ill.
Dick.
On the contrary, I’m in the very best of health.
Lady Kelsey.
But I saw in the papers that you were going to give up your seat in the House owing to ill-health.
Dick.
Of course, I’d forgotten. My heart is seriously deranged.
Mrs. Crowley.
How dreadful! What is the matter with it?
Dick.
Can you ask? I’ve banged it about at your feet so long that its functions are excessively impaired. And it’s beaten all my waistcoats out of shape.
Mrs. Crowley.
Don’t be so foolish. I was quite alarmed.
Dick.
I’m going to retire.
Lady Kelsey.
From the bar as well?
Dick.
From the bar as well. Henceforth I shall cultivate only such arts and graces as are proper to the man of leisure. My fellow men are a great deal too strenuous, and I propose to offer them the spectacle of a complete idler who demands from the world neither honours nor profit, but only entertainment.
Mrs. Crowley.
D’you mean to say you’re going to give up a large practice and a position which may be very important merely to gratify a foolish whim?
Dick.
I haven’t time to work. Life is so much too short. A little while ago it occurred to me that I was nearly forty. [To Mrs. Crowley.] D’you know the feeling?
Mrs. Crowley.
No, of course not. Don’t be so uncivil.
Dick.
By the way, how old are you?
Mrs. Crowley.
Twenty-nine!
Dick.
Nonsense! There’s no such age.
Mrs. Crowley.
I beg your pardon, upper parlourmaids are always twenty-nine.
Dick.
For years I’ve spent eight hours a day meddling with silly persons’ silly quarrels, and eight hours more governing the nation. I’ve never been able to spend more than half my income. I’m merely working myself to death in order to leave a fortune to my nieces, two desperately plain girls with red noses.
Lady Kelsey.
But what are you going to do?
Dick.
Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll try my hand at big game shooting, if Alec will take me on this expedition of his. I’ve always thought shooting would be an agreeable pastime if partridges were the size of well-grown sheep and pheasants a little larger than a cow.
Mrs. Crowley.
Then the breakdown in your health is all humbug?
Dick.
Absolute humbug. If I were to tell the truth people would shut me up in a lunatic asylum. I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s only one game in the world worth playing, and that’s the game of life. I’m rich enough to devote myself to it entirely.
Mrs. Crowley.
But you’ll get bored to death.
Dick.
Not I! Why, I’m growing younger every day. My dear Mrs. Crowley, I don’t feel a day more than eighteen.
Mrs. Crowley.
You certainly look quite twenty-five.
Dick.
I haven’t a white hair in my head.
Mrs. Crowley.
I suppose your servant plucks them out every morning.
Dick.
Oh, very rarely. One a month at the outside.
Mrs. Crowley.
I think I see one on the left temple.
Dick.
Really! How careless of Charles! I must speak to him.
Mrs. Crowley.
Let me pluck it out.
Dick.
I shall allow you to do nothing so familiar.
[George comes hurriedly into the room.
George.
There’s Alec Mackenzie. He’s just driven up in a cab.
Dick.
He must have come from the trial. Then it’s all over.
Lady Kelsey.
Quick! Go to the stairs, or Miller won’t let him up.
[George runs across the room and opens the door.
George.
[Calling.] Miller, Miller, Mr. Mackenzie’s to come up.
[Lucy Allerton, hearing a commotion, comes in. She is older than George, a tall girl, white now, with eyes heavy from want of sleep. She has lived in the country all her life, and has brought up to London a sort of remoteness from the world. She is beautiful in a very English manner, and her clear-cut features are an index to a character in which the moral notions are peculiarly rigid. Self-control is a quality which she possesses in a marked degree, and one which she enormously admires in others.
Lucy.
Who is it?
George.
It’s Alec Mackenzie. He’s come from the trial!
Lucy.
Then it’s finished at last. [She shakes hands with Dick.] It’s so good of you to come.
Boulger.
You’re perfectly wonderful, Lucy. How can you be so calm?
Lucy.
Because I’m quite sure of the result. D’you imagine I’d doubt my father for a moment?
Dick.
Oh, Lucy, for heaven’s sake don’t be so sure. You must be prepared for everything.
Lucy.
Oh, no, I know my father. D’you think I’ve not studied him during these years that I’ve looked after him? He’s a child, with all a child’s thoughtlessness and simplicity. And God knows, he’s weak. I know his faults better than any one, but it would be impossible for him to do anything criminal.
[The Butler enters, followed by Alec Mackenzie.
Alec is a tall, wiry man, well-knit,
with dark hair and a small red
moustache and beard, cut close to the face.
He is about five-and-thirty. He has great
ease of manner, and there is about him an
air as though he were accustomed that
people should do as he told them.
Butler.
Mr. Mackenzie!
George.
Is it finished? For God’s sake tell us quickly, old man.
Lucy.
Why didn’t father come with you? Is he following?
Alec.
Yes, it’s all over.
Lady Kelsey.
Thank goodness. The suspense was really too dreadful.
George.
I knew they’d acquit him. Thank God!
Dick.
[Looking at Alec’s face.] Take care, George.
[Suddenly Lucy goes up to Alec and looks at
him. An expression of horror distorts her
features.
Mrs. Crowley.
Lucy, what is it?
Alec.
I don’t know how I am going to tell you.
Lucy.
You say the trial was over when you came away?
Alec.
Yes.
Lucy.
The jury had given their verdict?
George.
Lucy, what are you driving at? You don’t think...?
Alec.
Your father asked me to come and break it to you.
George.
He’s not dead?
Alec.
Perhaps it would be better if he were.
Lucy.
They found him guilty?
Alec.
Yes.
George.
[With a groan of despair.] Oh! But it’s impossible.
Lucy.
[Putting her hand on his arm.] Ssh!
Lady Kelsey.
My God, my God! I’m thankful that his wife is dead.
Lucy.
I’m awfully stupid, but if he was innocent, how could they find him guilty? I don’t know what you mean.
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 356